


If at first you don't succeed

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Howl Series - Diana Wynne Jones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-15
Updated: 2006-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:36:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1641824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boy meets star. Boy and star go into a bargain, fully knowing what is in store for them.  Or do they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	If at first you don't succeed

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to qwerty and mikeneko for pointing out bloopers and for comments on characterisation. Also to qwerty for final proofreading and language-tweaking. Any shortcomings that remain, however, are mine and mine alone. Sadly, the same is not true of Howl, Megan, Calcifer, Michael, and Sophie, all of whom belong to DWJ.   
> 
> 
> Written for GreenSpine

 

 

He must have been seven or eight when he saw a falling star for the first time. Actually, he only had the briefest glimpse of the thing, because the soapy water kept getting into his eyes. Megan, who was cleaning mud off his hair at the kitchen sink right under the window, barely gave the view outside a glance.

"Ooo, look, a falling star!" he squealed, rubbing more mud and soap into his eyes.

"That's just a meteor. Now stay still and let me get all this dirt off your hair and face," Megan, who was just a few years older, replied in a smug tone. Being cleverer and more respectable than her younger brother were her heart's desires at the moment. She knew she was well on the way to the second, since respectable people did not come home covered with mud every other evening. As for the first one, well, she did know what the thing people call a falling star really was, didn't she?

"My hair feels clean now, Megan."

Megan peered at the roots. "Sorry. It's the colour, you know. I wish it were either lighter or darker. The way it is now, I can hardly tell the difference. And I wish you'd play less and work harder."

"Look, Megan! That's another, uh, me-teee-oo-ra-it thingie!" Howell cried again, glad for the chance to forestall a nagging session.

This time Megan did glance at the window. And, for a fleeting moment, a wistful look flitted across her face, which was beginning to lose its childish chubbiness. Then the usual competent Megan was back, and after she had towelled her brother raw and dry and placed the sullied towel carefully in the laundry basket, she said: "Do you want to know more about falling stars, Howell?"

* * *

The next time it happened was perhaps eight or nine years later. He was not even looking out of the window at the time. This was because he was busy contemplating three things simultaneously: his nose (or abundance of), his chin (or lack of), and a visit to the plastic surgeon's office.

"What the hell was she talking about!" he muttered as he frowned at an unruly curl across his brow. It had reverted to its natural indeterminate shade of brown, a little less than a month after that tedious colouring job at the hair salon. His nose wrinkled at the memory of the odious fumes. Yuck! He sniffled, and announced to his reflection:

"I mean, even Ziggy Stardust would kill for these cheekbones!"

He turned slightly and gave the mirror a lopsided grin. It was all in vain. Nothing could silence the sharp, scolding voices in his mind. And all he had done was ask her out to a movie.

_Go buy a mirror - and while you're at it, ask about the bad fairy at your own christening, will you?  
Maybe if you ask a frog to kiss you, you'll turn back into the right species. _

So preoccupied was he with the rejection that he almost missed the falling star. Or rather, the reflection of a bright projectile plunging towards the horizon. He turned from the mirror, and barely made it in time.

Sometimes when he looked back at that time in his life, he was glad he had mangled the wish. For not only did he gain the ability to go to any of the past years in Wales (or Britain, for that matter), back to his own christening or anyone else's, he had also somehow acquired the power to visit the past years _elsewhere_. And that was how he discovered the quaint little seaport town called Porthaven, where, several years down the road, he would have another encounter with a falling star. Which is also where this story really begins.

* * *

Howell Jenkins pushed the seven-league boots off. The little white flame hovered warily just beyond his reach.

"Go away," it begged in a quavering voice. It seemed terrified of him, for no reason Howell could fathom.

"I only want a wish," he explained, inching towards the bright shape. He was wondering if the chase had been worth his while. The fallen star appeared rather small and helpless. His fear about wasting his time (and the soles of the boots) was soon confirmed.

"If I could do that, I would wish myself up there again, wouldn't I?"

Howell sighed. It _had_ been a mistake, hopping into the seven-league boots and going after the falling star. At the same time, his heart went out to the luminescent teardrop-shaped face. He stared calculatingly at the white flame, tapping a finger on his cheek. _Yes, it is possible,_ he thought. _In this world - it has to be._

He ignored the little nagging voices at the back of his mind. What use was that particular part to him? He silenced them with the bigger, logical voice at the front of his mind. Think of the advantages! it coaxed: You can't break something you don't have. He wanted to know what invulnerability felt like. He wanted to be above all kinds of hurt, to not care about rejection or being unloved. Plus, there were _fun_ things to find out! For example, would heartburns cease to annoy?

"There is one way I can keep you alive," he found himself saying at last. And he told the fallen star.

A gasp escaped the little mouth, a black hole in the bright drop of whiteness. However, the fallen star soon collected itself; clearly, its fear of dying was stronger than any personal prejudice it might harbour concerning the method Howell had proposed to preserve itself. It swooped decisively into Howell's waiting hands, chirping melodiously, "Done."

More doubts threatened to rise in the back of his mind. Or rather, they seemed to originate from that part of him he was about to give to the fallen star. Howell quelled them all with a sharp, determined breath. He closed his eyes in concentration and pressed the fingers of his right hand into his chest. Deeper and deeper they went until, at last, he felt it, warm and slithery - the essence of his being, the wellspring of his sentiments - which he was now going to share with another entity. Releasing a deep breath, he opened his eyes, and was glad to find that he could still do both easily. _I am still alive!_ he thought, as his gaze turned towards the fallen star.

It was still sitting on his left palm, watching closely as the other hand steadily brought out a small, brown-red lump. When the hand with the lump was stretched out so that it was touching the edge of the other hand, the little white flame leapt to the top of the lump.

There was an exhilarated _Whooomp!_ as the fallen star settled on the lump. The bright whiteness was now gone, replaced by a fiery mix of blue-green and orange. Howell steadied himself, and looked into a pair of orange eyes, with a slit of malevolent purple in each. His fingers timidly explored his chest. He could feel the regular thumps around the leftish side. But he could also see the lump, which already seemed darker than when he took it out, at the root of the bright blue flame.

And yet. There was a sort of lightness that had not been there before. He felt a sense of release, yet he was certain that he and this bright-blue entity were united in a bond of infinite depth. He felt free from care, but he knew that he would have to be careful from now on. For how does a man with no heart know right from wrong, or love from hate?

* * *

Dawn was breaking by the time he stretched sleepily in the hearth, which was strangely illuminated by the blue-purple flame in the fireplace. Despite the fact that he had just walked from the marshes to the town, carefully balancing a newborn fire demon in his hands all the way, he felt restless. It was like an itch he could not get at, because it was not anywhere on the skin, or at least the physical skin. In fact, it was like learning to settle down in a new skin. He wondered if that was how snakes felt, as he stepped out of the house in Porthaven for a breath of fresh morning air. As if Fate was eager to show him what was in store for him in his new life, _she_ was walking right by the house on her way to the market, the daughter of a shipwright who had been one of his first customers.

She stopped by to have a brief, neighbourly chat with him. After all, he had sold her father useful anti-leak charms for his ships, and she would like him to continue doing so. She eyed the fireplace curiously - its agitated spluttering and hissing did not seem normal for a hearth-fire. Not to mention the colour.

Finally, having exhausted her supply of social niceties, she bid him goodbye and tried not to hurry from the doorway.

Howell turned towards the hearth. The fire demon had calmed down - perhaps it had finally got itself used to its new home. What a change it had been, he thought, from the edgeless heaven, to a little fireplace in a little seaport town!

It was only as he munched his way through his first fire-demon-cooked eggs and bacon that he realized the change - for him. He was almost distressed to discover that he was not _that_ distressed about it. After all, it might only be what they call a mere infatuation, one of those things that just go away overnight. So it was no big deal, he thought, that he had lost the nervousness that had always cropped up whenever _she_ was around.

* * *

Almost three years had passed since the night on Porthaven Marshes. Howl had since learnt that the fire demon preferred to be called Calcifer, that it was a 'he', that _he_ had a predilection for human food such as eggs and bacon (although logs were acceptable in slightly less prosperous times and seaweed would do in _really_ thin times), and that the contract was not doing either of them any good in the long run.

And they both knew that there was no way it could be broken by Howl or Calcifer or both; it had to be a third party.

By then Howl had taken in the waif from Porthaven. The lad had little talent for either wizardry or housekeeping, but he was handy when the relatives of the jilted girls stormed the moving castle. It was better for the aunts, fiancés or parents to find a human, rather than just a strange-looking fire at the fireplace, to rage at. However, Calcifer did occasionally interfere if things looked like they were getting out of hand. After all, both Howl and Calcifer had grown fond of Michael, and would prefer to keep rolling pins or cudgels away from his young head. Sometimes, if the parents looked violent enough, or had organized a mob of sturdy youths, Calcifer did not let them near the castle door at all, scaring them away with ghastly ghouls, ferocious wolves, or any of the collection of special effects he and Howl had devised over the last few years.

And so heartless Howl went on courting girls and stealing their hearts, giving out false names and false smiles as he made knees weak and legs wobble. And Calcifer let the girls, those who cared enough to find out where Howl lived, into the castle. Whether they came in tears or in rage, Calcifer watched every one of them very, very carefully. If the girl looked a likely one, he gave out hints. But even the _slightly_ likely ones were rare, and most were too upset to listen. All went away either never knowing or not remembering about a certain contract between horrible Wizard Howl and the talking fire in the hearth of his castle.

By the end of the fifth year Calcifer was resigned to enduring distressed young ladies who dripped on him and/or spat angry, hurt words at Michael, and putting soothing spells on angry, weapon-waving parents and angry, hatpin-equipped aunts. He was also beginning to question the wisdom of Howl's chosen method of trying to get rid of the contract.

Calcifer looked up from his ruminations as the door opened and Howl stepped in from the front of an abandoned stable in Kingsbury. The wizard gave the fireplace a tired look, tossed Calcifer two pieces of log, and sat down on the only clutter-free chair in the hearth. They faced each other in what seemed to be companionable, restful silence. Then Calcifer spat out a green flame in disgust.

"No good. They are all no good," he sizzled, the twin purple slits narrowing until they were barely there in his orange eyes.

"What's got into you today, Old Blueface?" Howl asked, even though he knew and dreaded the answer.

"You know what it is. We've talked about this before. It's taking more and more to keep everything together. Me, you, this castle."

Calcifer lapsed into a sullen, low flame. Howl leaned back and closed his eyes. Another tiresome wooing session! He did so want to slither away from what was both unthinkable and inevitable: His heart was going to run down, soon. Howl sniggered at the thought, and said aloud: "And not in the way those cholesterol-shunning, pavement-pounding fools back there would have thought, too."

Howl knew that Calcifer must have been in a really bad mood that evening, for the fire demon did not even bother to hiss a sarcastic query at this remark, which must have seemed nonsensical to him.

"I should have thought more about it before traipsing into some marsh to look for a falling star," he admitted to the fireplace. "It does not take much for a heart to keep one person, or even two, alive, but it does take a lot for it to keep his - humanity. Oh well. Or whatever it is that keeps a person sane and stops him from- from going to the bad... from hatching some megalomaniac scheme for world domination or massive human cloning or, or, whatever. Apparently, a conscience is not enough to get by."

The fireplace brightened; Calcifer's interest was piqued. Howl was being unusually non-avoidant about the contract that evening. They had only discussed the matter twice. The first time was when they had started to figure out the atrophy thing. The second discussion occurred after Howl, sufficiently frightened, had slithered out far enough to come around the other way. And came up with the plan to save them both as well. Some plan it was, Calcifer thought as he despondently sent out an errant blue flame towards the edge of the hearth rug. Maybe he should give it another try.

"Maybe you should reconsider the other way?"

 _No dice_ , Calcifer thought as Howl's eyes turned glassier than ever at the mention of "the other way".

"Look, I don't want to muck things up even more. The more I think about what happened that other time, the more ridiculous it seems. I must be the only person in the universe who gives himself that kind of gift at his own christening. I mean, who in his right mind would...."

"All right, all right." The shadows in the hearth quivered as the possibility of green slime occurred to Calcifer. He went on in a placating tone: "I was only asking."

The seemingly companionable silence returned. For a while. After some deliberation, Calcifer decided to chance the green slime again.

"I don't think this is working at all," he crackled nastily. "Are you sure you've put all of your charms in your efforts?"

Howl raised his magically-enhanced chin at the fire demon. No one made fun of his vanity and escaped with it, not even Calcifer, no.

"They just don't love me enough!" He pouted. "I feel like one of the spiders. If at first some old biddy sweeps your web away, try, try again."

At that moment, Michael's cheerful greeting rang throughout the castle and ended the discussion. The apprentice had been in a happier mood than usual lately. Then, again it might have to do with the fact that this was a special night. It was May Day, which also happened to be the apprentice's birthday. Although Calcifer had earlier snarled at Howl's idea of a display of fireworks for the occasion ("Do you want it to be visible from both Kingsbury _and_ Porthaven too?"), he was not really averse to it. After all, the lad worked hard for his keep, always remembered Calcifer's logs, and was company to help while away the long, long days and nights of Calcifer's sooty incarceration.

As he concentrated on shooting blue flames from the castle's turrets, Calcifer fervently hoped that Howl would find the right girl soon.

* * *

Calcifer's hope was foremost in Howl's mind - that is, along with sundry other important matters as he jostled through crowds of beery young men and coy young women. Eyeing some of the comelier young women, he thought of the Witch of the Waste, or rather, what she had to do with the disappearances of two of the most important persons in Ingary - one of Ingary's most powerful wizards and the brother of the King. Then the thought wandered on to the rumours of the witch's own contract, and from there to Calcifer's worry was just a synapse away. Which brought him to the purpose of his gadding about on May Day night.

He sighed. What had he been thinking that night on Porthaven Marshes five years ago? True, he had felt sorry for Calcifer, but equally true, he had also wanted the power. That night his heart had not merely gone out to the dying star, it had actually leapt at the thought of what the contract could do to enhance his talents. Without Calcifer's help, he would not have been able to crank out his doctoral thesis on spells and charms in time. Without the millennia-long wisdom of an old, old star, he would not have been sufficiently equipped with the arguments to defeat the dissenting voices at his viva voce.

Still - he did not wish to end up like the Witch of the Waste. Howl shuddered at the idea. _A wayward heart! Would Calcifer...? No, I refuse to think of that._

And he had been wrong, wrong, wrong. He had thought that to be above getting hurt was a good thing. He had wanted to be the calculating player who controlled the pieces, instead of a mere pawn bound to its place on the chessboard. He had believed that having a heart was a limiting thing, but now he knew how empty being heartless felt. It was like walking along a wind-swept meadow, watching the flowers sway and the leaves flutter in the breeze, but never feeling the caress of the wind on his skin all the while. He felt nothing, beyond a detached, vague sense of wrongdoing, whenever Michael and Calcifer related the visits of the girls or the relatives.

Most annoyingly, he still occasionally experienced burning sensations in his chest (after too much drink, or chocolate). _Some_ fun _things you had wanted to find out, Howell Jenkins,_ he muttered to himself.

Would he never be able to love properly again? There was always the thrill of the chase, the excitement of the challenge - right up to the moment they fell for him. And then there was nothing but annoyance with the loving gazes and the affectionate smiles the women bestowed on him. The storm of passion they attempted to engulf him in hardly ruffled him. He wondered how much of the detachment was due to the fact that he was only doing it because he had proposed and Calcifer had agreed that, yes, this was the best way to break the contract. What would it take but the right girl to steal (back) his heart, without doing Calcifer any harm?

A grey-clad young woman near a shop doorway caught his eye. He raised a blue-and-silver sleeve airily and smiled a "Good evening" at her. She cringed and retreated into the doorway. What has made her such a cowering drab little thing? he thought, slightly curious and mostly bored, as he made some attempt at a conversation with her, for form's sake. He could see that this timid girl was not going to be much help when it came to the matter between Calcifer and himself, although the ginger curls trailing out of the grey shawl and the bright mousy eyes were rather appealing to his tastes. Well, ginger or not, he got tired of toying with her before long, and let her go as soon as she refused a token offer of escorting her to her destination.

Staring at the crowds of young women waiting to be accosted, Howl adjusted the blue-and-silver doublet, touched the emerald stone dangling from an ear, and thought: _Oh well, better look for a more likely one._

* * *

About a week later, Calcifer let a visitor into the castle. At first glance, she looked too old to be one of the hatpin-wielding aunts, despite her vocal demands at the various doors to be let in. After second and third glances, Calcifer wondered if Howl had outdone himself this time - but both layers of spells on the young woman did not have the feel of Howl's.

The spells were a good thing. They might give him some sort of lever at the bargaining, if the girl turned out to be as likely as Calcifer thought. Also, her snoring form on the chair looked so care-worn and defenceless that Calcifer's heart would have gone out to her then and there - had he not recalled the bossy manner she had bullied her way into the castle and onto the chair, and had he a heart to give away in the first place, that is.

And so Calcifer told her about the contract and offered to take the spells off, being dishonest without telling a bare-faced lie, cajoling, whining and flickering sadly to get her sympathy all the time. Until she finally asked in empathic indignation: "What are the terms of the contract? How do I break it?"

Calcifer nearly burst into one of those blue flames he had shot out of the castle last week, but he regained his self-control and sternly allowed himself an eager, but not _too_ eager, grin. None of the candidates had managed to get this far. And none had seemed as likely as this one. She was a witch herself, although she appeared to have no idea how her craft worked. Probably the same way she got everything else to work: sheer bullying. As Calcifer sealed the bargain with Sophie Hatter, he thought jubilantly: Howl had found the right girl, at last.

 


End file.
